


A New Decade

by Anonymous



Category: Music RPF, The Verve
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Best Friends, Brief mentions of canon het pairings, Drug Use, Friendship/Love, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8889523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Three decades, three eras. 80s: Nick McCabe meets the most arrogant bloke in the world.90s: The Verve prepare to record their second album.00s: The band breaks up for the third time.





	1. History

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RocknRoll1968](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocknRoll1968/gifts).



> Dear The_Anglophile, I was happy to get your request because The Verve are one of my favourite bands. I used my own knowledge of the band and did as much research as I possibly could, but I do apologise if I got some facts and technical details wrong (especially Nick’s extensive gear). For me, the main focus of the story is Nick’s and Richard’s turbulent relationship, and I hope you like my take on it. Happy Yuletide!
> 
>  
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER** : This is a work of fiction. All real names and events are referenced purely in a fictional context.

_“I’ve got to tell you my tale  
Of how I loved and how I failed.”_

 

### 1989

Nick had just turned eighteen, and he still hadn’t figured out what he wanted to do with his life. So far, his limited set of skills all involved his beloved second-hand Strat and the plethora of pedals and effects in his growing collection. However, Nick was a realist through and through, even at eighteen; he highly doubted that there were plenty of jobs waiting for budding guitarists from Winstanley.

Even his family were giving him a hard time about spending too much time practicing and not enough on his A level revision. “You still mucking about on that guitar of yours?” Alan teased him during one of his visits home, before ruffling Nick’s hair with a laugh. Alan was making good money as a quantity surveyor in Blackpool, and Mum was already starting to drop hints about Nick following in his footsteps.

“It’s not quite ‘mucking about’,” Nick grumbled, although there wasn’t much heat in it. Alan had chipped in quite generously for the Strat, and if it weren’t for his brother, Nick wouldn’t even have a guitar to begin with.

“Play us some Zeppelin, then.” Alan crossed his arms expectantly with a grin, while Nick just rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his tuning. Alan (and sometimes Paul) had always tried their best to convert Nick to the church of rock and roll, but it had never really appealed to him that much. Nick had always preferred the eclectic, the unusual; playing the same four chords over and over again hardly seemed revolutionary.

“Little Nicky will be a rich and famous guitarist one day, and we’ll all be sitting here with our thumbs up our arses,” Paul said with a laugh, as Mum swatted him with a tea towel. Paul ducked it, smirking. “Leave it be, Al, let ‘im do his own thing.”

Now the conversation turned to dinner and more family news, but Nick couldn’t help brooding over his brothers’ words well into the night, knowing exactly why they had stung. Fame and fortune had never been his intent; he wasn’t like those knobheads at school who learned guitar just to impress girls and become rockstars. It was exceedingly difficult to find like-minded souls who were in it for the music and not the glamour, so Nick had given up hope of ever finding a band where he would fit in.

After dinner, Nick retreated to his room and laid down in bed, putting on his Walkman to drown out the shouts of his brothers and father in the living room where they were watching some match on the telly. He cycled through Hendrix and a bit of John Martyn, plucking imaginary strings and fingering imaginary chords. Was he really destined to become a quantity surveyor in Blackpool like Alan? He tried to imagine relegating his guitar to being a mere side hobby, but the thought caused him actual physical pain.

“Fuck,” he said with a sigh, crossing his arms behind his head. He hadn’t even finished his A levels and he was already bloody miserable.

***

“How’s it coming along, then?”

A dazed Richard blinked, startled out of his daydream. When he had sat down earlier in the canteen, it had been relatively quiet so he’d drifted off, pondering some lyrics he’d been working on. Now the canteen was apparently teeming with people, and Simon Tong had plopped himself down opposite Richard, an expectant eyebrow raised at him. Shit, Simon had asked him a question, hadn’t he?

“How’s what coming along?” Richard started poking at his uneaten chip butty, ignoring Simon’s long-suffering sigh.

“The power chords I showed you that day, mate.” Simon shook his head with a knowing smile. “Y’know, you’re so out of it sometimes. So, you been practising?”

Richard nodded. “Yeah, been getting really good if I do say so myself.”

“Si’s getting better and better at the bass,” Simon said, stealing Richard’s chips.

“Good,” Richard said nonchalantly. “Now all we need is a drummer.”

Simon thought for a while. “What about Sobbo?”

“Sobbo?” Richard repeated. “Who the fuck’s that?”

“His real name’s Pete Salisbury,” Simon explained, as Richard sat up in realisation. “But everyone calls him Sobbo.”

“I know him!” Richard exclaimed loudly, turning a few heads their way. “We got into a fight once-- no, twice I think. Bastard tried to tackle me during a match once, but I kicked his arse!”

Simon looked vastly amused. “Anyway, arse-kicking or no, I’ve managed to steal him away from his other band for a while. So don’t fuck it up. And play nice, yeah?”

"Hey, I'm always nice," Richard insisted, and decided not to feel insulted when Simon merely laughed.

***

It was a well-known fact that the practice rooms in the music department were some of the most disgusting rooms in the school. They were old and dingy, and people often had no qualms about smoking in them or leaving food wrappers behind. Still, this didn’t change the fact that it was near impossible to find one available at any time, especially after school hours. Richard, Sobbo and the two Simons trudged through the winding corridors with diminishing hope, peeking in through the windows and finding every single one occupied.

“Bloody hell, I knew we should have skipped the last class,” Sobbo grumbled, scuffing his foot against the carpet.

“We’ll find a studio,” Simon reassured him, nodding and waving at various people as they passed the rooms, a muffled jumble of noise booming through the walls. Richard could hear one band playing the Stone Roses, another butchering a Happy Mondays cover. People rarely played their own original work these days.

They meandered towards the last few studios that were usually the last to be taken because they were so near the teachers’ offices. But even those were occupied, and Richard was about to turn back when he picked up the sharp strains of something that sounded like a cross between a guitar and a keyboard. He stopped, listening closely. It was coming from the very last studio, the one nearest to the loo.

“What’s that?” Si asked, similarly entranced. “You lot hear that?”

They made a beeline for the window, and Richard, who was the tallest, peeked in through the window over Si’s head. Unlike the other cramped and crowded studios, there was only one occupant in the room. It was hard to see his face, for the bloke was staring impassively at his guitar, only occasionally lifting a foot to tap on his pedal. Richard couldn’t believe that it was a single guitar making that rich, layered sound.

“Fuck me, he’s good,” Sobbo said admiringly. “Sounds like a keyboard, don’t it?”

“Who is that?” Richard couldn’t quite believe the sublime melodies that the bloke was coaxing out of his guitar. Both man and instrument seemed so ordinary, so plain upon first glance. But the music was above and beyond anything else they’d heard in the other rooms. Everyone else seemed positively amateurish, compared to this impassive genius.

“That’s Nick McCabe,” Simon said. Of course he knew bloody everyone. “He’s in the year above us.”

“Was he at Upholland with us?” Richard asked with a frown. This McCabe fellow didn’t look familiar at all.

“No, he went to school somewhere else, I think. Maybe Haydock.” Simon had now closed his eyes, bobbing his head to the music. “Fuck, people told me he was good but I didn’t think he’d be of this calibre.”

“He looks like he’s about to fall asleep,” Si said incredulously. “Go on, look at ‘im.”

It was true. Richard had watched all kinds of guitarists play: mad ones, twitchy ones, relaxed ones who looked like they were in a trance. But Nick almost looked bored, as though he were waiting for the train, or stuck somewhere in class. If Richard could coax such amazingly beautiful notes out of his guitar, he’d be jumping up and down, eager to show it off to the whole world.

Yet despite Nick’s passivity, Richard couldn’t tear himself away from that music. He was rooted to the spot, letting himself soak in the shimmering melodies filling the corridor. This was the music he’d heard in his dreams, the perfect accompaniment to the lyrics floating around in his head and lovingly preserved in his notebook.

When the music tapered off, the four of them burst into wild applause and cheers, startling Nick who simply froze on the spot, wide-eyed like a deer caught in the headlights. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to disappear into a hole in the ground. Richard was baffled. If he’d been singing in a practice room and discovered that he’d accidentally attracted a captive and appreciative audience, he would have been over the moon.

Si didn’t seem to have noticed Nick’s unease, flinging open the door and grinning widely as he marched in. “That was brilliant, mate! Nick, is it? I’m Simon, this is Richard, Sobbo and Simon Two.”

“Fuck off,” Simon said without much heat, before nodding at Nick. “Hiya, mate.”

Unstrapping his guitar, Nick yanked out the plug before bending down to slip it back into its case. “I’m done if you lads want the room,” he said quietly.

“Wait, hang on,” Sobbo said, surprised. “We’re not chasing you out, we just wanted to hear you play some more.”

Now Nick looked suspicious. “Why?”

Richard couldn’t hold back his outburst. “Because you’re fucking brilliant!” he exclaimed, looking around as the others nodded in agreement. “I’ve never heard anyone play like that before! How did you-- I mean, you made the guitar sound like a keyboard--”

Nick was staring at him, frowning skeptically. “Are you taking the piss?”

“What? No! I just--” Richard was interrupted by Simon gripping his shoulder, raising a hand in a ‘let-me-handle-this’ gesture.

“We’re not taking the piss,” Simon reassured Nick. “We’re in a band, and I think our sound gels really well with what you were playing earlier. Maybe we could--”

“I’m not looking for a band,” Nick said, his face expressionless as he zipped up his guitar cover and slung it across his shoulder. “The room’s yours, lads.”

The four of them watched with open mouths as Nick calmly strode out, leaving them speechless in heavy silence until Sobbo finally burst out: “The fuck’s his problem?”

“He’s like that,” Simon said, weary. “Very stand-offish.”

“But brilliant.” Richard was still in awe. “Fucking brilliant. I don’t care; we have to have him.”

“You’re having a laugh,” Si said with a scoff. But Richard already wasn’t listening, staring after the most amazing guitarist in the world.

***

“Oi! McCabe!”

Nick was on his way to the music practice rooms when he heard his name being shouted. It was hard not to tense up as he turned around, immediately on his guard. There was a tall, skinny bloke striding up to him, and Nick tried to remember whether he’d seen him before. His long, solemn face was familiar.

“You don’t remember me, d’ya?” The bloke was lanky and confident, good-looking enough to turn the heads of two girls walking past them. He didn’t bother holding out a hand to introduce himself.

“No, sorry.” Nick knew he sounded curt, but he was wasting precious minutes of practice time.

Instead of being offended, the strange bloke was grinning at Nick like he was the most interesting man in the world. “Don’t matter, cos I remember you.”

Nick was now certain he’d gotten the wrong person. “Where did we meet again?”

“You were playing the guitar.” The man gestured towards Nick’s usual practice room with an ineffectual wave. “I’m Richard, the one who barged in with his band. You know Simon Tong, yeah?”

Nick nodded, a little bit more at ease now. “We’ve jammed together before.”

Richard thumbed at the room behind him. “We’re all actually jamming now. Why don’t you come join us?

Despite his reluctance, Nick craned his neck to take a look. Behind Richard, he spotted the two Simons and Sobbo crammed together against the practice room window, all of them grinning idiotically at him.

“Well, I don’t know.” Nick let out a sigh, contemplating his options. It was getting rather boring, playing on his own all the time. Besides, he had enjoyed his jam session with Simon Tong. It wouldn’t hurt to give Simon’s band a try, right? “I s’pose I could play a while.”

Richard was grinning from ear to ear. “C’mon, then. I swear you won’t regret it. We’re the fucking best band in Wigan.”

Nick tried to suppress his snort. _Cocky bastard_ , he thought.

***

After two straight hours of jamming with Richard’s band, Nick had to admit that maybe Richard was justified in his arrogance. The band seemed to know what they were doing and took their music as seriously as Nick did. No mucking about, no suggestions for Cream covers or anything daft like that. Plus, Richard was really a fantastic singer. He was intense and quite probably mad, prowling around the studio bare-footed and waving his hands about whenever Nick or Simon got into a really good guitar solo. The bassist - Si - must have noticed Nick’s bewilderment, whispering to Nick, “Rich’s like that sometimes. Means the music’s good.”

Simon had to leave after a bit; as a multi-instrumentalist, he was in huge demand with a couple of other bands. Still, they continued jamming long after he’d left. Nick admittedly enjoyed this more because there was no other guitar for him to accidentally clash with. Si was nodding along, pleased as punch, and Sobbo’s drums were electrifying. Nick never ever wanted to stop.

They were eventually chased out by the school custodian, and Nick found himself forcibly invited to supper with the lads. At the best of times it was hard for him to make friends with strangers on the spot, because he always took loads of time to open up to people. But with Richard, Si and Sobbo, it felt strangely easy and effortless. In fact, Richard could keep up a conversation entirely on his own, outlining his grand plans for his band and for rock stardom.

“So you’re in, right?” Richard kept pestering Nick, who hated being the centre of attention. “You fit right in like a glove, mate.”

“Ashcroft is a very selective bastard,” Si explained with a wink. Nick quite liked this fellow. “He doesn’t just make this offer to anyone.”

“Fucking right.” Richard had turned to face Nick now, his stare intense and earnest. “When I heard you play, it was like, fuck! A whole other universe opened up before me eyes, y’know? I could see shapes and colours that I’d never seen before.”

“Pardon the poor lad,” Sobbo said around a mouth full of food. “He’s a complete nutter.”

“I’m serious,” Richard said, ignoring the snickering around him. “Music is so much more than a good tune. When it’s done right, it can expand the mind, broaden your horizons and make you feel like you’re flyin’. And that’s what I want to do, y’know?”

It sounded a little too airy-fairy to Nick, but he got the gist of what Richard was getting at. It didn’t hurt that Richard had written some really good lyrics that Nick was itching to attach a melody to.

Well, Nick thought, what did he have to lose anyway? Might as well get the chance to play with a good band before he had to pack it all in and become a fucking quantity surveyor.

“All right, then,” he said, looking around the table at the three anticipatory faces. “So how do I join your band, then?”

Richard looked surprised. “What? I thought you’re already in, mate.”

“Congrats,” Si said with a laugh, clapping a stunned Nick on the back. “Welcome to Verve.”

 


	2. A Northern Soul

### 1994

It felt fitting, for Nick, to return to their roots and start recording their second album back in Wigan. The year so far had been hell for them, and he still had nightmares about watching Richard being carted away in the back of an ambulance, never to be seen again. Drinking helped, sometimes, although it could be hours before Nick’s hands would be steady again.

Their debut - and the ensuing tour - had nearly wrecked them all. Nick hated the unnecessary junk that had accompanied the success of ‘Storm’, an endless nightmare of press junkets and music video shoots and sycophants fawning over their every move. He simply wanted to get back into the studio and record again.

Richard seemed no worse for wear after the Lollapalooza incident, bearing his scars like a proud warrior and brushing off people’s concerns and advice. After all, he was Captain Rock, Mad Richard. Nick knew his friend would hate for the public to scrape the thin, shiny veneer of his arrogance and reveal the fragility underneath.

Nick knew him better than anyone, and even then Richard would rarely allow Nick a glimpse of the real him. But whenever he surfaced, that was the bloke Nick liked best: wickedly funny, whip-smart and possessing a gift with words that Nick could only dream of.

He was often the first one that Richard would show his lyrics to, and together they’d go over the words. Richard’s style was confessional and grandiose, which should have annoyed Nick by all rights. But Nick could not help but see the truth and brutal honesty in Richard’s writing, and there was beauty in that too.

Now Richard had written some really top lyrics for the second album, so they tried them out while jamming in the studios. Nick was experimenting with a riff that he ran through the wah pedal, turning up the distortion as much as he could without breaking the amps. Si had come up with a wicked bassline to accompany Nick’s riff, while Sobbo pounded on the drums. Richard as usual had his shoes off, swaying before the mic with his eyes closed. Nick could see the moment inspiration struck (or rather, when the E kicked in) as Richard’s eyes flew open, his spindly hands cradling the mic.

 _“I’m alive with something inside of me,”_ Richard sang, _“and I don’t think I’m coming down.”_ Chills ran up and down Nick’s spine. Richard’s voice was sublime, his words pure poetry.

 

After the first take, they discussed changing the bridge a bit, and Richard crossed out some lyrics while adding more. “Try _‘I’m going to die a lonely man_ ’ instead of ‘ _die alone in bed_ ’,” Si suggested to Richard. “It’s got a more lyrical feel to it, yeah?”

The conflicted expression on Richard’s face was hard to miss. “No, I think ‘ _alone in bed_ ’ works,” Nick interrupted, trying not to notice the grateful look Richard shot him. He had a hunch that it must have been some reference to Richard’s father, and Nick didn’t want them to rob him of it.

They jammed a few more times, until Sobbo demanded a break, claiming his wrists were ‘stiff as fuck’. Nick unstrapped his guitar as Si and Sobbo filtered out, probably to do more coke or E in the bathroom. To his surprise, Richard was still standing there, staring thoughtfully at Nick. His gaze was intense, scrutinising.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, reaching forward and gripping Nick by the elbow. “Well-- you know what I mean.”

Nick was strangely reluctant to move, if it meant Richard releasing his grip. “It’s a good song, innit?” he said with a shrug.

Richard cleared his throat. “I wrote it with two people in mind,” he said. “My dad and-- and Noel.”

Nick couldn’t mask the irritation on his face. “Good for Noel then,” he said, his tone a little too sharp judging from how Richard flinched. Nick yanked his arm out of Richard’s hold, his jaw clenching as he put his pedals away so he could get the fuck out of here.

“You don’t understand--” Richard was saying, even as Nick didn’t pause on his way towards the exit. He thought he heard Richard mumble, _“All my other songs are about you,”_ as he stormed out. But with the way his head was swimming and his pulse roaring in his ears, Nick really couldn’t be sure.

***

Richard was on the phone with Noel again. They had become best mates, Richard and the Gallaghers, and even though the tour was over, it seemed to Nick that they still kept in constant contact. Nick hated himself for being irked by that; he wasn’t a bloody five-year-old who got jealous of his best mate having other friends on the playground. Besides, in the beginning he’d gotten along with Noel and found him an alright lad; Nick even vaguely remembered a drunken singalong of ‘She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain’ with Noel and Richard in Sweden at some point.

Nick didn’t exactly want to examine why his attitude towards Noel had changed. No, he told himself that his irritation stemmed from the Gallaghers’ swaggering bravado and their insistence that everyone except themselves - and their beloved Beatles, of course - were complete knobheads. It wasn’t surprising that Richard, who had always had quite the ego himself, had fallen prey to the same affliction.

“It’s not so bad,” Si had said once, when he’d noticed Nick’s distaste. “It feels like Richard has someone to, I dunno, bounce his energy off a bit?”

“Yeah, know what you mean.” Nick didn’t want to grumble that he missed the responsibility of being Richard’s main outlet for creativity. Si would just laugh and call him a right tosser.

The one good thing that came out of it was Nick getting to be better friends with the other lads, at least. Si shared Richard’s chattiness and humour but none of his cockiness, and he was often on the same page as Nick when it came to music. As for Sobbo, he was a tougher nut to crack, but Nick liked his casual bluntness as well as his disdain for the glitzy side of the music industry. The three of them could jam for hours and hours on end without Richard, and this was becoming more frequent due to his friendship with the Gallaghers.

“The way Noel writes songs is astounding,” Richard told Nick once, when they were sharing a spliff during a songwriting session. For the second album, Si had insisted on more complete songs before heading into the studio, instead of “fucking about” like they did for ‘Storm’.

“Like how?” Nick hated to egg Richard on about anything related to Oasis, but Richard had that dreamy look in his eyes which meant some fucking great lyrics were forthcoming - with Nick’s encouragement, of course.

“It’s amazing, he just-- he has all these catchy guitar hooks and anthemic choruses.” Richard was high enough not to notice Nick’s wince. “Man, I wish I knew how to write like him. I wanna learn, y’know?”

Nick couldn’t hold back his outburst. “Don’t be daft,” he snapped, taking a toke to calm himself before passing the joint back to a wide-eyed Richard. “You’re better than he is. Far better. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Richard was still just gaping wordlessly at him, so Nick, loosened and mellowed by the weed, chattered on for much longer than he normally would: “It’s just-- it’s like hearing Michael Jackson say he wishes he were as good as Elvis, or something. They’re just so different. Worlds apart. The two of you aren’t comparable, is all.” Nick knew he should stop babbling now, feeling like he’d just showed his hand a little too much.

If Richard had noticed anything odd, he didn’t say anything except, “Yeah, okay.” He was unusually silent now, his brows knitting together in contemplation.

“Or Nietzsche wishing he could be like...like…” Nick was frowning, trying to grab at a name. “Y’know, whichever rubbish philosopher you used to study at school?”

They both burst into laughter here, Richard clutching Nick’s arm in helpless mirth while Nick gasped for air. Richard smelled nice, like weed and aftershave and tea. From his vantage point, Nick watched Richard curl against his chest as they tapered off into chuckles. Richard kept his eyes shut, sighing blissfully. For a bloke, Richard had the longest eyelashes that Nick had ever seen. Nick quite enjoyed how they fanned out, long enough to rest against Richard’s prominent cheekbones.

“You too, y’know.” Richard sounded drowsy, and Nick was stirred out of his silent admiration. “You’re the best fuckin’ guitarist in the fuckin’ world. I can’t-- can’t believe you’re in my band.”

Nick was not quite buzzed enough to dismiss the heartfelt tenor of Richard’s confession. “Come off it,” he muttered, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“It’s true,” Richard insisted, burrowing against Nick’s chest even more. “I’m a lucky man, y’know?” It was lovely, sitting here with Richard’s arms wrapped around him, so Nick didn’t say a word as they finished the spliff together.

He would never admit it, but he felt lucky too.

***

Sometime after the first week, Noel came up to visit them in the Wigan practice rooms where they were holed up to get the second album sorted. Richard was delighted to see him, particularly since Noel had brought with him some new songs and a bag of really high-grade E. “The second album’s gonna be fuckin’ wicked,” Noel kept promising. “Fucking ace.” They were standing in the mixing room with Owen, all of them watching Nick in the live room through the glass. “A thousand times better than ‘Definitely Maybe’. Even our kid’s got good things to say about the stuff I’ve written, and you know what a cockhead he can be.”

Richard couldn’t help chuckling. The E he had dropped earlier was hitting him really fast. “You two still at it like cats and dogs, then?”

Noel scoffed loudly. “Not my fuckin’ fault, innit? Liam’s a fuckin’ nutter. Makes me want to punch ‘im in the head sometimes.”

They stopped talking for Noel to drop more E, both of them watching Owen yell at Nick over the intercom. Nick was sitting cross-legged on the studio floor, crouched protectively over his guitar and looking all kinds of pissed off. Owen had wanted Nick to repeat something he had played earlier. Of course, Nick refused to play the exact same thing and had come out with something entirely different. More yelling from Owen only resulted in Nick’s variations defiantly getting more and more unrecognisable.

 

“Moody bastard, that one,” Noel remarked thoughtfully. “Must drive you barmy, workin’ with him.”

“Our Nick?” It wasn’t the first time Richard had heard this sentiment. “No, no, he’s really brilliant and-- he’s misunderstood.” Richard had always felt vastly protective of Nick. “I know journos hate him and all, but...he just doesn’t suffer fools, is all.”

Noel was giving him a long, scrutinising look which made Richard vaguely uncomfortable, at least until the look turned sly. “Then why’s he hanging out with you, Ashcroft?”

“Fuck off.” Richard rolled his eyes as Noel cackled gleefully. “And gimme that fuckin’ E.”

***

_“I stand accused, just like you,  
For being born without a silver spoon--”_

  
“Stop, stop!” It was Owen over the intercom, gesticulating impatiently at them through the greasy window. “Sobbo, you’re going too bloody fast!”

A red and sweaty Sobbo let out a huff, mopping his face with a towel. “How fast d’ya want me to fucking go, then?”

“Try 140 bpm,” Owen commanded. “Stop rushing or you’ll eat up McCabe’s fucking riffs.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sobbo rolled his eyes, but reached down for the metronome that he kept by his feet and set the speed accordingly. Richard knew better than anyone else that Sobbo had a temper - that was how they’d met, after all - but he seemed to be getting better at reining it in. Maybe Sobbo too could sense that they had some fucking special tracks on their hands.

They stopped to take a break - and drop more E from the stash Noel had left them - before resuming work on a new song. It was just Si and Sobbo at first, plodding forth in a slow, lazy rhythm, before Nick got back from his nightly phone call with his daughter. He seemed much more relaxed and at peace as he strapped on his guitar. When he caught Richard’s eye, Nick flashed him that rare, dimpled smile that made something in Richard’s heart flip.

Unfortunately Richard didn’t have time to process that, for Nick immediately launched into a loud, brash guitar intro that made everyone unable to resist headbanging along to, even the usually stoic Sobbo. Si was jumping up and down with loud whoops.

Richard sang the first words that popped into his head: _“How long will I run for? “Who am I running from?”_ He thought he saw Nick look up from his guitar and shoot him a sharp glance, but the moment was over before he could affirm it.

The song was flowing like magic, so Richard began to sway back and forth, allowing himself to soak in the music. Nick was plucking out a guitar solo, toggling the Rhythm and Treble switch on his Les Paul as Sobbo ran his sticks along the edges of his cymbals. Before Richard knew it, he had made his way over to Nick, who looked up at him with wide eyes. Richard rested his forehead against Nick’s, shoving the mic between them. This close, Nick’s eyes were so warm, so brown. There was a frantic electricity between them that Richard knew Nick could feel too.

" _If you're looking for me_  
_I'm there and it's you_  
_If you're looking for me out there it's true.”_  


Nick’s mouth was beginning to twitch up into a smile, swaying along with Richard as they played out the song.

***

The first two weeks of the recording sessions for the second album were going great. Fucking amazing, in fact, and Richard wished the euphoria could go on forever and ever. Things with Sarah were rapidly going to shit, and for Richard, calling home only meant more screaming fights or cold, passive-aggressive silences. It was comforting for him to retreat to the studio and coccoon himself in it with his favourite people. In particular, the majority of his time was spent with Nick, who himself had split with Monica a while back and was missing little Elly. Like Richard, Nick’s remedy for heartache seemed to be songwriting, so the two of them kept putting their heads together to craft the best songs they could.

Si and Sobbo would just shake their heads and mutter something about them being workaholics. “I’m not going to work anymore, I’m fuckin’ knackered,” Si announced after a long session one night, setting down his bass. “Anyone up for some supper?”

“I’ll come,” Sobbo said, putting on his coat. “Owen’s pretty hungry too, I’m sure.”

“Right, let’s go.” Si smacked his lips. “I feel like Chinese tonight, what’d you all reckon?”

“I want curry,” Sobbo demanded. “Plus, I’m pretty sure that new Indian bird at the counter fancies me.”

“You think _everyone_ fancies you,” Nick retorted, as everyone roared with laughter.

“You’re just jealous of my devastatingly good looks, McCabe,” Sobbo said good-humouredly, tilting his head towards the door. “Let’s go, lads.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Richard waved towards his book of lyrics. “I want to get some writing done.”

“I’ll stay too,” Nick said, much to Richard’s pleasure. “I don’t think I can stomach dinner with Sobbo making eyes at some poor waitress. Could someone help me get a takeaway? Maybe a bacon butty?”

“Sure, mate.” Si turned to Richard. “Anything for you, Ashcroft? Maybe a truckload of lasagna?”

“Fuck off,” Richard flipped him two fingers as they finally left, laughing.  
  
Nick himself was chuckling, although he feigned innocence when he caught Richard’s mock-glare. “Wot?”

“Traitor,” Richard muttered, although he cackled when Nick tossed a cushion at his head.

Making themselves comfortable on the break room sofa, they decided to look over Richard’s little notebook of lyrics, passing a spliff back and forth. The weed nicely complimented Richard’s existing high from the last of Noel’s E earlier, and he felt like he was soaring above the clouds. The only thing nicer than the buzz was how Nick was currently squished against him on the sofa, his head almost pillowed in Richard’s lap. He treasured these little stolen moments with Nick when it was just the two of them, without the rest of the lads.

“How about this one?” He heard Nick ask. He glanced down and found Nick pointing to a set of lyrics he’d written a few days ago.

 

>    
>  All I want is someone who can fill the hole  
>  _In the life I know_  
>  _In between life and death_  
>  _When there's nothing left._

“I did think of a melody for it,” Richard admitted. He’d been aching that day, he remembered, watching Nick storm off in misguided anger.

“Well, what does it sound like?” Nick’s slow, relaxed smile suggested that the weed had fully taken effect. God, he was beautiful. Richard desperately wanted to trace the deep lines of those rare dimples.

To his surprise, Richard held his breath as Nick finally rested his head on Richard’s lap. Unable to resist, Richard let his fingers sift through the dark silk of Nick’s hair; it really was as soft as it looked.

“Like this.” Richard bent down so that his mouth was next to Nick’s ear. He sang the words he’d figured out and hummed the rest, accidentally-on-purpose letting his lips brush against that curved, pink shell.

When Richard was done, Nick was very, very still.

“Alright?” Richard said cautiously. He couldn’t tell if it was the weed making him so paranoid, or Nick’s unnatural stillness.

To his surprise, Nick shifted so that instead of his ear, his mouth was now lined up against Richard’s own. “Better than ever,” he whispered, lifting his hand to sift through Richard’s hair before tugging on it and closing the few inches between them.

The kiss started slow, Richard brushing his lips against Nick’s dry warm ones as he rested a hand on Nick’s chest. Beneath his palm, Nick’s heartbeat was thundering a mile a minute, betraying his relaxed expression. Richard could fully relate; he’d wanted to do this for fucking _ages_ , and his own pulse was thundering in his ears. He was going slow only because he wanted to savour the kiss, electricity crackling all through his veins.

Then Nick made a soft, pleading muffled sound against Richard’s mouth, which meant the end of his tightly-leashed self-control.

Yanking Nick up by the lapels of his shirt, Richard shoved him down on the sofa before climbing on top of him, their legs nicely slotting together before they resumed the kiss. It was far more heated and out of control this time, and Richard lost it when Nick slid his tongue into Richard’s mouth. The kiss was getting dirty, and Richard couldn’t hold back his moan when Nick slid a hand under his shirt, his nails scratching lines down Richard’s back and making him groan. “Fuck, Nick--”

“Yes please,” Nick said breathlessly, which made both of them chuckle, breaking off the kiss for air.

Without any warning, Nick surged forward and captured his mouth again, and this time Richard was stunned by the passion and urgency in this second kiss, like Nick was trying to taste every last bit of him. Richard willingly opened up for Nick, smiling when he felt Nick's tongue stroking against his. Suddenly, it felt like all the blood had left his brain and was quickly heading south.

He wrapped an arm around Nick's waist, pulling him closer so that their bodies were pressed together from sternum to thighs, and Richard's pulse jumped when something long and hard pressed against his hip. Richard gasped into the kiss, making Nick pull away in concern. “Wot? Did I hurt you?”

Maybe it was the weed, or Nick’s almost-comical wide-eyed expression. Whatever it was, Richard couldn’t hold back the hilarity bubbling inside him, clutching Nick to him and laughing and laughing against his soft brown hair.

“You’re barmy!” However, Nick was smiling too, his eyes warm with humour as his callused fingers stroked Richard’s cheek. “What’s the matter with you?”

Richard was still wheezing with laughter. “I’ve never kissed a bloke before!”

“Neither have I,” Nick shot back, tracing Richard’s eyebrows. “But you don’t see me going fucking mental.”

“I know, I know.” Richard beamed down at Nick, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “God, I love you so much.”

Nick’s smile faded, transforming into something...sombre. Richard would have been fooled if he didn’t notice Nick’s eyes were a little too bright. “C’mere,” Nick mumbled instead, tugging Richard down and kissing the life out of him.

Afterwards, both of them were lying entwined on the sofa, shirts untucked and roughly unbuttoned. Richard’s pants were a mess, and he suspected Nick’s were as well, from the way he was shifting uncomfortably against Richard’s body. It was a good thing Richard didn’t take up much room: nothing in the world could have forced him apart from Nick at that moment. He could feel the high from the weed wearing off, but the feel of Nick’s fingers sifting through his hair sent thrills down his spine. He wished off-handedly that he’d kept it long for Nick to play with.

“Can’t believe we did that.” Nick sounded dreamy, but sombre enough. He must be coming down from the weed and E too.

“D’ya regret it?” Richard asked before he could stop himself.

Instead of answering him, Nick hummed in contemplation. “Did you mean what you said? Earlier?”

They both didn’t need to clarify what Nick meant. Richard turned so he could nuzzle against Nick’s cheek. “‘Course I did,” he swore heartfeltly.

Nick’s smile was the brightest thing Richard had ever seen.


	3. INTERLUDE: Urban Hymns

### 1997

After getting off the phone with Myra, Si headed outside the studio for a quick smoke. They were almost done with the new album in London, and he was itching to hear the finished product so far. Of course, that wouldn’t be for a while yet, not when Chris was still working his magic and Nick had yet to record his parts entirely.

Si blew out a long stream of smoke into the chilly night air. It was honestly good to have Nick back. Throughout the past year, all of them had felt the weight of his absence in the studio, and playbacks were rubbish because their sound felt incomplete. Getting Simon Tong onboard had marginally helped, but even though they were all already familiar with him and his playing style, there was something fundamental...missing. All year Richard had paced restlessly in the studio and complained about how the new songs felt hollow, but even a dozen phone calls to his mate Noel Gallagher couldn’t fix the fact that they still didn’t sound like The Verve.

“Oi!” It was Sobbo, sticking his head out the door. “Si, you should come hear this. It’s fuckin’ brilliant.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’!” Putting out his cig on the heel of his shoe and flicking it away, Si followed Sobbo down the narrow winding corridors towards Studio 4. They could already hear the clear notes of Richard’s voice singing the beginning of ‘Drugs’, which Si thought had all the makings of a potential single. All it needed was some tweaking, some beefing up.

In the studio, Richard was strumming his acoustic guitar and crooning into the mic, eyes shut and feet bare as always. Opposite him, Nick was crouched on the studio floor, his head bowed over his Les Paul. He was adjusting the reverb, head cocked as he listened intently to the song. After a moment of apparent inspiration, Nick reached for a slide and slipped it on, watching Richard closely.

 

__  
“And I hope you’re thinking of me  
_As you lay down on your side...”_

  
Here Nick played a few notes, pressing down his slide and letting the reverb pedal draw out the notes beautifully. Goosebumps prickled all over Si’s skin, and he saw Sobbo’s jaw drop open. Richard himself was smiling in approval, swaying to the music as Chris - perched over his console - held two thumbs up from the other side of the studio window.  
  


_“Now the drugs don’t work_  
_They just make you worse_  
_But I know I’ll see your face again.”_  
  


“Jesus bloody Christ,” Sobbo whispered. “So that’s what it’s been missin’.”

“That brilliant bastard.” Si was still completely in awe. Nick had surely been sorely missed in the studio, and now they knew why. Together, Nick and Richard were a force to be reckoned with.

“What did I miss?” Simon was wandering up to the studio window now, seemingly unperturbed that Richard and Nick had started recording without him. Si felt Simon was a good lad, very laid-back and absolutely brilliant at _any_ instrument he got his hands on. Most importantly, Simon didn’t seem offended at all that the band had essentially brought Nick back to replace him.

“Just McCabe and Ashcroft going over ‘Drugs’,” Sobbo informed him. “Let me tell ya, mate, it’s got ‘Top 40’ written all over it, it does.”

They fell silent as they listened to the rest of the song, Nick’s beautiful, sublime twanging notes complementing Richard’s soaring vocals. Since it was an impromptu acoustic take, Chris recommended that the entire band should take a break outside and discuss the song in earnest before coming in again to do a proper take with Nick’s parts.

Si wasn’t going to say no to another smoke break, after all. When all five of them were outside, Sobbo passed around his pack of cigs and, as an afterthought, a joint as well. After taking a deep drag of his cig, Richard started waving his hands about animatedly, raving about Nick’s guitar additions. Nick looked increasingly uncomfortable with all the praise, but oddly chuffed at the same time. Si had never been more glad to have him back, provided things didn’t get pear-shaped again.

Si hadn’t mentioned it to anyone - not even Myra - but every detail of the day the band had split up was completely embedded in his brain. He even remembered what he’d had for lunch and how Sobbo had complained bitterly about Arsenal’s win over Liverpool. Nick and Rich were barely speaking, ignoring each other all day. Si had figured that they must have had another blazing row, which was getting quite common, to be honest.

Then Richard had taken the opportunity to announce his wedding date, and it had caught all of them by surprise. He and Kate had only been going out a while, after all. Si had been the first to offer his congratulations, followed by Jazz and Sobbo. Nick had this pinched, angry look the whole time, and when Si had asked him if he was all right, Nick had simply left the room, completely stone-faced.

“Dunno mate,” Sobbo had later said with a shrug. “Maybe Nick fancied Kate too.”

That couldn’t have been it, though. Si vaguely recalled that Nick’s interactions with Kate were few and far between when they had been touring with Spiritualized, so Sobbo’s assumption didn’t make sense. Whatever had royally ticked Nick off - and also caused him to get blindingly, belligerently drunk later - would probably always remain a mystery. Richard was the one who’d mainly borne the brunt of Nick’s outburst after all. If he could forgive Nick and move on, then who was Si to judge?

Someone smacked the back of his head, startling him out of his reverie. “C’mon Jones, we’re voting whether to keep the bridge in ‘Drugs’,” Richard said. He had his shades on, which made it hard to tell whether he was annoyed or happy.

“Keep it,” Si said automatically, as Nick pumped his fist in the air triumphantly. “It’s the best part of the song! Especially with Nick’s new bits.”

“Nick’s bits are my favourite,” Richard declared with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, and they all burst out laughing as Nick’s face turned red, muttering “Fuck off.”

Si had never been more glad that he was back with his true brothers again.

 

***

Si had brought back a stack of lasagnas for Richard as a joke, and he couldn’t help chortling to himself as he shouldered the studio door open, struggling to keep the lasagnas balanced on top of each other. It was a joke that never got old, and besides, the lasagna wouldn’t go to waste. One or more of the engineers would definitely finish the food; those fuckers were bottomless pits who would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down.

The studio was dark, which was a surprise because Richard and Nick had been engrossed in tweaking Nick’s parts on ‘Butterfly’ when Si and Sobbo had left to get supper. Si placed the lasagnas on a nearby table, wondering if Richard and Nick were coking it up in the breakroom or something. He hoped that there might be some left.

Making his way to the breakroom, the mystery was solved when Si saw the light under the door. There those buggers were, then. Rich and Nick had always been thick as thieves, at least until the whole thing had gone to pot and they’d come to blows that one horrific night years ago. Si had never seen that part of Nick before - stormy, red-faced and belligerent - threatening a crying Richard with a broken beer bottle. No doubt that alcohol had played a large part in that, since Nick had always been a quiet and reserved bloke. However, neither Si or Sobbo knew why Nick had started drinking so heavily in the first place. And if Richard knew, he’d kept it to himself. _Something_ had definitely happened during the second album that had vastly depressed Nick and made him turn to the bottle. But to this day, Si still had no idea what it was.

Now, it seemed Nick and Richard were inseparable again, once more off in their own little world, locked in private conversations and chuckling together at their own inside jokes. Si didn’t have a jealous bone in his body, but often he found himself wondering at their closeness and the chemistry between them.

Hearing low voices and laughter in the breakroom, Si nudged the door open a sliver at first, taking a peek just in case he was interrupting.

To his shock, Richard had Nick shoved up against the wall, their arms locked around each other-- were they fighting again? _Wrestling?_ Si’s first panicked thought was that he should barge in and run over to break up the fight. That was until Richard tilted his head and Nick arched back, mouth open in a gasp as he surrendered to Richard, who was unmistakably placing a row of tender kisses up his neck.

Si froze on the spot, his head spinning.

_What the fuck did he just see?_

Stunned beyond measure, Si somehow found his wits again and staggered backwards, out into the safety of the corridor. Did...did he make a mistake? He was still struggling to process what he had just seen.

“Given Ashcroft the lasagnas yet?” A red-cheeked Sobbo was striding down the corridor, beaming with mischief. He reached out to push open the door to the breakroom.

“Wait!” Si hissed. “They-- Don’t go in!”

Sobbo frowned at him. “Why not?”

Si’s mouth was open, but nothing came out. _Fucking hell._ He could not think of a good enough excuse, not when his brain was still trying to process what he had seen. _Nick and Rich?_ So many things made sense now, and Si’s head was reeling.

Sobbo’s frown was getting increasingly quizzical. “You alright, mate? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Y-yeah. I just--” Fuck, there was no way Si could stop Sobbo from going in without arousing even more suspicion. The least he could do was give Rich and Nick some kind of warning.

“Just go in if you want to, for fuck’s sake!” Si said loudly, making Sobbo’s eyebrows jump up in surprise. “I’m not yer mum, Sobbo!”

Sobbo blinked, startled and more confused than ever. “O--kay then,” he said in that patient tone which meant he was just humouring Si, before he shook his head in puzzlement and pushed the door open.

Thankfully Nick and Rich must have heard Si’s warning, both of them already apart and deliberately not looking at each other. Sobbo didn’t seem to notice their flushed faces and dishevelled hair, or how Nick’s neck was raw with reddened marks. Si had to pause and massage his temples before his brain broke. Fucking _Richard_ was the one who gave Nick those lovebites. _Fuck._

“Anyone got some E?” Si demanded. There must have been something sharp in his tone, for Nick was avoiding his gaze and Richard was giving him a suspicious look. “I need some fuckin’ E, or coke, or _something_ right now.”

“I’ve got some,” Nick said, exchanging a meaningful glance with Richard. “Follow me to the studio, Si. It’s in me coat pocket.”

They headed out in silence, walking past two engineers who were headed out for a smoke break. Once they got to the empty Studio 4, Nick picked up his coat and started rummaging in its pockets, pointedly _not_ looking at Si.

Si couldn’t hold it in any longer. “What the fuck are you and Rich up to?” he demanded in an angry whisper.

Nick’s expression remained impassive, but his gaze was shifty and the tips of his ears were turning red. “What are you on about?” he said calmly, shoving a little baggie of tablets into Si’s hand.

“I saw you and Rich,” Si said urgently, as Nick’s jaw clenched. “You two were-- Fuck, have you both completely lost the plot? How long has this been going on?”

Nick didn’t say anything, walking over to one of the larger speakers and perching himself on top. “Sobbo knows?” he finally asked.

“Fuck no, I stopped him from going in.” Si gave him a level glare. “Can you imagine, me and Sobbo having simultaneous heart attacks? Bloody ‘ell.”

Nick’s mouth quirked up in a faint ghost of a smile. “That would have been quite the sight.”

“You’re avoiding the question.” Si let out a long breath, Nick’s almost-smile disappearing. “How long, McCabe?”

There was a long, tense silence, during which Nick gestured for the little baggie that he’d given Si earlier. Dropping E helped Si with his jangled nerves, and Nick seemed to be a bit more relaxed as well, tension melting out of the tight line of his shoulders.

Just as Si thought he wouldn’t be getting an answer, Nick said quietly: “Since the second album. But there was-- there was something there during ‘Storm’, I think. For my part, anyway. Dunno about Rich.” Nick’s mouth was now a grim line, a distant look in his eyes.

“Jesus.” Si really didn’t know what to say, absently running a hand through his hair. “I...I really don’t know what to say, mate.”

“Don’t say anything.” Nick shot him a sharp look. “Sobbo doesn’t have to know, yeah?”

“No bloody way I’m tellin’ him,” Si muttered. “He’ll be furious. Fuck, he’ll blame the band’s break-up entirely on this.”

“That’s why he doesn’t need to know,” Nick said matter-of-factly.

Now that the thought had occurred to him, Si had to satiate his nagging curiosity. “Was it? I mean, the band splitting up…” At Nick’s defensive expression, Si immediately added, “I’m not blaming you, I promise. It’s just-- was that why you and Rich had that massive row?”

Nick shut his eyes. “I felt one way, he felt another.” His voice sounded oddly flat and detached, but Si could read between the lines.

“You felt used,” Si said quietly. He knew he was right at the way Nick flinched. Not knowing what to say, Si shifted closer and perched himself on top of the table as well, so that he was sitting next to Nick. He didn’t know if more proximity would be of any comfort to his friend, but it was better than nothing. Nick seemed haunted, lost in his thoughts. Si wanted nothing more than to cheer him up, to make up for all the times he’d blamed Nick solely for splitting up the band. Guilt ravaged his insides, making him hollow.

“It’s fucked up,” Nick eventually admitted, staring off into space. “I swore I’d never come back, I wanted to tell Rich to fuck off when he rang me out of the blue and begged me to come back for ‘Hymns’. But then, he was going on about how he was sorry for being a right twat, and how he never wanted to be in a band without me--” Nick trailed off, giving Si a sideways rueful smile. “It seems he’s my weakness just as I am his.”

Si didn’t know how to respond to that, but he knew exactly what Nick meant. Myra held the heart of him, knew how to undo him with the right look or smile. He’d never imagined another person having this power over him, or even wanting to voluntarily surrender it to someone. It must have torn Nick apart to feel this way about Richard and - even worse - having to share him with so many people.

“I’ve got your back, mate,” Si said softly, clapping Nick on the leg. “Just...be careful, yeah? I won’t tell the other blokes.” His smile turned wry. “I don’t think we can survive another break-up, y’know?”

Nick let out a scoff. “Believe me, if the band splits once more, it’s for good. There’s no way I’m letting Ashcroft get under me skin again.”

Something occurred to Si, and he shot Nick a mischievous glance. “Wait, so does this mean all of Richard’s corny lyrics are about your sorry arse?”

Nick’s laughter was a relief. “Fuck off,” he told a cackling Si, smacking the back of his head.

 


	4. Forth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [For this chapter, I messed with the 2000s-2010s timeline a bit.]

### Forth

The journalist had an entire list of questions. Richard spotted several additional notes scrawled in the margins, and there was one question in particular that was circled repeatedly. He was willing to bet anything that it would be about the one topic he refused to address.

“So, next question.” She was young, probably too young to have listened to ‘Storm’ when it first debuted. Richard let out a breath through his nose, so that it sounded like a sigh. It made the journo considerably more nervous. “Erm so, about the break-up. Is it true you and Nick--”

“Didn’t you read the press junket?” Richard said irritably, pushing up his aviators so that they shielded his eyes. “I made it clear I don’t want to address that.”

The journo had the good graces to at least blush. “I understand, but everyone’s talking about--”

Richard leaned back and called out loudly: “Karen?”

Rod’s latest assistant peeked in through the door. “Yes, Mr. Ashcroft?”

“Could you explain to this very nice but persistent young lady that she needs to read the terms and conditions listed in the press junket?” Richard was already getting up and patting his pockets for his cigs, much to the dismay of the journo. “I’ll be back in five.”

“Er--” Karen was clearly torn between politeness and acquiescence, but Richard didn’t wait for her to make up her mind, shouldering his way out to the hotel lobby.

It was a cold crisp day in London when Richard stepped out of the Fairmont, cold enough that he zipped up the rest of his jacket right to the top. The wind whipped through his hair, making him shiver. Many days he missed the old length of his hair, but keeping it long reminded him too much of guitar-callused fingers sifting through it. He swallowed the tightness in his throat, thumping the pack of cigs viciously against his palm. The break up was already a year ago, yet its fault lines still ran deep through him.

How had they gotten to this point? 

“Bittersweet symphony, mate!” someone shouted as they walked past him, and Richard raised a hand in acknowledgment. It happened a lot these days, and he was reminded of Noel complaining about people calling out ‘Wonderwall!’ to him on the street.

It had been a while since he’d heard from Noel, who was understandably busy with High Flying Birds as well as his upcoming wedding. Richard had received an invitation for him and Kate, along with a string of texts from Noel asking him about guest vocals for some project or another. Although Richard had a lot on his plate with his solo work, he’d do anything for Noel. Liam too, for that matter.

It was hard for Richard to toe a tenuous line and balance his friendships with both brothers, but he’d managed somehow. He tried his best not to get involved if one brother started slagging off the other, although a deep part of him would admit that if push came to shove, his loyalties would probably lie with Noel. 

Strangely enough, it was Liam who was better at keeping in touch, texting Richard invitations to parties and concerts. Tonight was the launch of Liam’s new clothing line, and Liam had basically threatened bodily harm if Richard didn’t turn up so he’d marked it in his calendar. (He didn’t think Liam would actually go through with his threat, but Liam had an odd sense of humour sometimes.) Besides, it would be good to show support for Liam as well as get his face out in the press again.

After suffering through a few more interviews of people who couldn’t stop asking him about Nick, Richard made his way to the Gore Hotel which was hosting the launch for the ‘Pretty Green’ line. Liam was already swanning about the lobby, looking absolutely charming and dapper in an all-black ensemble. He swaggered up to Richard when he saw him, letting out a low whistle at his outfit. 

“Lookin’ all spiffy, eh Ashcroft?” Liam held his arms out wide for a hug, which Richard was glad to oblige. “Hope you brought lots of dosh to spend on me clothes.”

Richard laughed loudly. “Yeah yeah, as though they’d fit me.”

Liam scrunched up his face. “Yeah, yer a skinny bastard.”

“How’s the launch going?” Richard asked, scanning the room. There were a variety of celebrities milling about, drinking Liam’s expensive champagne and probably slagging off his clothing line. As usual, Noel was conspicuously absent.

“Good, good. Too many pretentious knobheads here for me likin’, though.” Liam shrugged. “Had to invite them, though. Keep the missus happy, y’know?”

“Tell me about it.” Richard checked his phone. “Speaking of the missus, Kate’s running late. She’ll be here soon, she said she’s sorry.”

“Sorry lads, could we get a picture together?” a photog politely requested. Liam nodded, wrapping an arm around Richard’s shoulders as they both held up peace signs. _Once a Lennon fan, always a Lennon fan_ , Richard thought.

When the photog left, Liam poked Richard in the chest. “Oi, forgot to tell you something. You heard about your old mate McCabe?”

Something cold seized Richard’s chest, and he found he couldn’t breathe. From Liam’s serious expression, it sounded as though something had happened to Nick. Richard stared at Liam, his breath frozen in his lungs. “Wh-what happened?”

“Nowt serious, mate.” Liam patted him on the shoulder consolingly. “I just heard that he had to sell his guitars or some shite like that. He on the fucking dole or somethin’?”

Relieved that it was nothing life-threatening, Richard nonetheless could feel his heart sinking. He knew what Nick’s guitars meant to him; they were his _life_. If he was doing that, he must have been desperate. Richard knew Nick would be too proud to even admit he needed help, let alone ask anyone for it. He would have helped Nick in a heartbeat, but he suspected Nick would let hell freeze over first before ever approaching Richard for anything.

No, not with the way they’d left things. The last break-up had been the ugliest of the three, causing massive fault lines within the band. Sobbo had chosen to stick with Richard and contribute to his solo career, while Si had taken Nick’s side this time. Richard heard the two of them had formed a band with some other musicians, and publicly he’d wished them well. But deep down, he knew the four of them would never be able to recreate what The Verve had. They’d soared too close to the sun, and now they were all paying the price.

A hand on Richard’s elbow startled him out of his thoughts. It was Liam, who seemed to have an all-too-understanding look in his eyes. Nick was Richard’s cross to bear, and Noel was Liam’s.

***

It was a quiet, lovely day in Shropshire, the blue sky so bright that it looked like a Windows desktop wallpaper. Nick took in the sight, setting down his watering can to catch his breath. He’d managed to tame the overgrown garden in the first six months after moving in, but it still meant more physical work than he was used to. Between his home chores and his new part-time lecturing gig at the uni, he didn’t get out much these days unless it was recording for the Black Ships. Still, that was the only part in his life that involved the guitar. Where his life used to be shaped around it, now he’d found himself strangely detached from it. 

It reminded him of his aimlessness when he was eighteen, lost and directionless and aching to fit the guitar into his life somehow. _Some things never change_ , he thought.

How different life was now, just as he’d turned 40. He’d never imagined that he would ever have to sell his beloved collection, but it was something he had pondered long and hard over. If he wanted to go back to uni and learn more about recording arts and production, he had to start somewhere. 

There was a loud honking down the road, and Nick glanced up in surprise. Rarely anyone came by these parts except for the mailman, and he had already dropped by earlier. It was a mid-sized brown lorry trundling up the road, coming to a stop outside Nick’s house.

Shucking his gardening gloves, Nick made his way to the gate, just in time to intercept the driver parking the lorry and hopping out. “You Nick McCabe?” the driver called out cheerfully.

Nick frowned in confusion. “Yeah, s’me. What’s going on, mate?”

“You’ve got a delivery. Sign here, yeah?” The driver thrust a clipboard at him before disappearing round to the back.

Squinting down at the delivery form, Nick’s eyes almost popped out when he saw the Gibson logo at the top. Sure enough, the driver was carefully lugging out a guitar-sized wooden crate, which had the words ‘SG-13 LP BIRDSEYE’ printed on the sides. “This must be a mistake!” Nick called out. “I didn’t order a guitar, mate.”

The driver didn’t bother to stop loading the crate onto the trolley, wheeling it up Nick’s driveway. “Don’t matter, cos someone did on your behalf. They left a note inside the guitar case, if you want to see who bought it for ya.”

Despite more arguing, the driver insisted on leaving the crate with Nick, who reluctantly signed for it in the end. Admittedly he was curious about the identity of his benefactor, because he really couldn’t guess who would be kind enough to gift him a Les Paul Birdseye after he’d been forced to sell off most of his collection.

It took another fifteen minutes to get the crate through the door and into the living room, after which Nick had to fetch his tools and pry it open. His heart was beating wildly as he removed the top, his gaze falling on the beautiful brown hard-shell leather case. There was a card taped to it, and he picked it up.

He instantly recognised the handwriting.

_Heard you had to cull your collection a bit. So here’s one more, to thank you for introducing me to a whole other universe._

_RA_

Feeling like the breath had been knocked out of him, Nick slumped to the floor, staring down at the guitar case. Lifting it with trembling hands, he removed the Les Paul from its case, careful not to smudge the polished surface. The brand new strings gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through the window, and for a brief second Nick wanted to cry.

“Lucky man, indeed,” he murmured to himself once he was under control, strumming lightly to get the feel of his new instrument. He felt like he was sixteen all over again, getting his hands on a guitar for the first time and feeling it call out to his bones like a second home.

After a long moment, he made up his mind and took out his phone, scrolling to his contacts with a smile on his face.

He had a phone call to make.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Notes: Although the members of the band have children, I deliberately made very vague mentions, or took them out of the story if there was no relevance to the plot.


End file.
